Rachel Gibson: Lola Carlyle Reveals All

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I was raised to believe that a lady never uses bad language.”

He laughed and grabbed his pool stick. “Well, honey, I distinctly remember one time you forgot.”

Her hand fell to her side, and she watched him move to the other side of the table and line up his shot. He had to be talking about the one time they’d made love. She didn’t remember using profanity, but she supposed it was entirely possible, since she’d been so frightened and hadn’t been herself. And if she was completely truthful, Max had set her on fire that night. Now just thinking about it made her feel ready to combust all over again.

Max pointed at the pocket next to Lola’s left hip, then took the shot. The eleven ball rolled neatly into the pocket and he looked up at her. As he lined up his next, a smile crooked his mouth and his blue eyes shone in anticipation of beating her.

Lola couldn’t let that happen. If there was one person more competitive than Max, it was Lola. She placed her palms flat on the edge of the table and gazed over at him. Back in her modeling days, when she’d needed to seduce from the flat pages of magazines, she’d used certain tricks. One of them had been to think of the best lover she’d ever had. Now, years later, her old trick came back to her. Just like riding a bike, but she didn’t have to think long or hard to come up with a candidate. He was staring right back at her. She thought of her hands on his bare body, touching him all over, her fingertips feeling the different textures of his flesh. She licked her lips and her mouth parted on a slight inhaled breath. Her lids lowered and Max missed his shot.

He moved toward her and she straightened. “Nice shootin‘, Tex,” she said.

“I was a little distracted by your cleavage and that do-me-on-the-pool-table look you were giving me.”

She laughed and didn’t try to deny it. “It worked.”

“Yeah, too bad I don’t have anything that works that good on you.”

He had no idea. Just the thought of him flustered her. “Max, I’m sorry I called you a jerk.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He slid his palm across her shoulder to the back of her neck. “I was being a jerk.”

“True, but I shouldn’t have said it. I’m just very nervous.”

“About later?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not too late to call it off.”

“No. I want to do this. I need to.”

“I’ll take care of you.” He leaned his cue stick against the table and pulled her closer. “Nothing will happen.”

She believed him. He had a way of making her feel as if he could protect her from anything. As if by his sheer size and the force of his will, he could make sure nothing bad happened to her. In the past, men who’d wanted to protect her had also made the mistake of thinking she was too stupid to take care of herself. Not Max. He actually listened to what she had to say. During the engineering of tonight’s op plan, he’d listened to her ideas and input, even if he’d decided to do the exact opposite. He’d heard her, and she was afraid she was falling desperately in love with him, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it. It was like going down one of those dark tunnel slides. There was nothing to grab on to stop herself, and she didn’t know what waited for her at the bottom.

No, that was wrong. She did know. Heartache, because she could not live his life or ask him to change for her. She looked into his eyes, which were so familiar to her now. “I hate being afraid, Max,” she confessed, although at the moment she didn’t know which she feared more: getting caught breaking into Sam’s house or falling in love with Max.

One corner of his mouth pulled into a mock frown. “Poor baby, let me give you something else to occupy that gorgeous head,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers. One of his hands slid to her behind, the other to the back of her head. His fingers tangled in her hair, and he held her against his hard body.

Then, right there in the back pool room of the Foggy Bottom bar, the lamp lighting up the bottom half of them, Max Zamora made love to her mouth. He kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough. As if he would eat her up if she let him. And she did let him. She let him cup her backside in his big hand, and she tilted her head to one side and sucked his tongue into her mouth. A low groan sounded deep in his throat and her pool cue dropped to the floor. She ran her hands over as much of him as she could reach, the muscles of his arms and shoulders and back. He was hard strength and edgy passion wrapped around a hidden core of sweetness that made him save dogs he didn’t particularly like and wrap purple flowers around her ankle. The combination was intoxicating and irresistible, and she felt herself slide farther down the tunnel to the very brink.

The alarm on Max’s watch beeped next to her ear and he pulled back, his lips moist, his eyes heavy. “It’s time to go to work.”

Her mouth felt swollen. Desire beat heavy between her thighs and her knees were weak.

“Are you ready?”

Was she ready to break into Sam’s house? Not really, but there was only one answer to give. “Yes, Max.”

On the forty-minute ride to Baltimore, Lola crawled into the backseat of Max’s Jeep and opened her suitcase. She changed into black jeans, a turtleneck, and the pair of Jimmy Choo black ankle boots she’d bought just for the occasion. Max switched on the radio to an oldies station, and “Sympathy for the Devil” filled the interior. As they sped north on Highway 95, Mick Jagger belted out, “Pleased to meet you… hope you catch my name,” and Lola shoved a black ski hat on her head and covered her hair.

She glanced toward the front, into the rearview mirror and the black shadows of Max’s face. The second they’d left the Foggy Bottom, it had been as if he’d turned something off inside himself. His touch had become impersonal. The tone of his voice, strictly business. Lola wasn’t so lucky. He still bombarded her senses. The scent of him filled the vehicle, sliding into her lungs and warming her chest. As best she could, she pushed aside her emotions and desire, her fear of tonight and her future with Max, and concentrated on their plan.

She climbed into the front seat and snapped the belt across her lap. She could be a professional. As Max had told her the night he’d agreed to help her, failure was not an option. She would not let him down.

“Are those heels on your boots?” he asked as they took an off-ramp and headed toward the suburbs.

“Yes, but only three inches.”

The golden light from the dash lit up his chest and throat. He said something in Spanish, and she figured it was best not to ask him to translate.

“You told me to wear shoes that had no discernible tread,” she reminded him.

“I also told you to wear shoes you can run in.”

“I can run in these.”

He made a rude scoffing sound and neither of them spoke again until he pulled the Jeep to a side street and parked.

“Sam’s house is a block over and down. All the property down that street abuts the woods,” Max said, and looked across at Lola. Within the dark interior, he could just make out the shape of her face and eyes. “We’re going to come in from the back.” He reached behind his seat on the floor and grabbed his rucksack. “Stay right behind me, just like you did on that island. No talking until we’re inside.” He pulled the keys out of the ignition and flipped off the interior lights. “Once we get to the house, I’ll cut the power to the alarm system. That will also cut the power to the rest of the house.”

“Without power, how will you erase the hard drives on Sam’s computer?”

“He has a battery backup that will kick on for about half an hour. We’ll be in and out in half that time.”